It was nice getting back to the mountain rescue section at
Valley. Chris Burrell informing me that
I had to buy his car, as it was the team car, wasn’t the only surprise waiting
for me. We had trialists. In a way this was very good news for even
though I had been promoted to the dizzy heights of Novice, Docker and I were
still the lowest form of life on the unit.
Trialists would take the focus off us for as long as they lasted. I wanted no part of it because I was still
raw from my time as a trialist.
As no one would speak to, or about trialists, it was a good
few days before I learned that one of them was Rod Shackleton, the valium
chomping Corporal from air traffic control.
Docker and I were given folders which contained one long list of every function
we had to be trained in, complete and be assessed in. It ranged from a series of climbs where the
difficulty grading increased, to abseiling, night navigation, endurance and survival.
Living with the team allowed me to begin to get to know some
of the established members and of course to socialise with them. Mountain rescue
was always ready for a party and the age old forces excuse of ‘working hard and
playing hard’ was always brought out to excuse the excessive behaviour. Although most functions ended with a large
group, sitting around, singing folk songs.
I remember my first experience of this which I enthusiastically joined
in with.
I started to sing a song and could only remember the first
verse and chorus. It was the wee small
hours of the morning. Most people were
smashed off their heads. So the next day I was surprised to get a
bollocking from Paddy Cross who informed me that I should never sing a song
that I couldn’t finish, it was bad form. I couldn’t believe just how serious he was
about it. He went on to advise me that
every team member was supposed to know, word perfect, at least one song which
they would stand and perform at a moment’s notice. I was then told to make sure the other
fecking Novice knew this.
Paddy Cross was an established team member and like Pib had spent
a lot of time running about deserts and mountains, so was held in high regard
and his word was gospel. As a Novice you
knew that you still had to impress the other team members, you may have
survived the trial period, but now you had to earn their trust. One day I walked into the section house and checked
the notice board. There was a small
poster announcing an upcoming function.
It was a meeting of the Royal Air Force, Valley, Mountain Rescue, Cheese
and Wine Appreciation Society.
Paddy Cross was passing and I asked him about it. He explained that a select group of people
would get together, taste various wines and cheeses from around the world, compare
their findings and at the same time have some polite and interesting
conversation. I asked if he thought I might be allowed to
attend. He couldn’t see why not, so I inquired
as to what sort of wine I should bring.
I wasn’t sure if he was tired of my questions, for he told me to bring a
big frigging bottle and when I asked about the cheese, he suggested a big
frigging lump.
I made a note of the time for the function, noticing that at
least it was being held at the mountain rescue section, on block two, so I wouldn’t have far to travel. I went into Holyhead, where the selection of
available wines was restricted, to say the least. I wasn’t that educated in the world of wine
so perhaps, as many people do, chose the wine by the look of the label. The cheese was an easier decision but rather
than following my instruction to get a ‘big friggen lump’ I bought a selection
of two, or three, medium sized lumps.
I was quite excited about meeting, what I hoped would be,
like minded people and perhaps forming one or two new friendships. On the evening in question I gave myself a
good scrub and, leaving my boots and jeans in a corner, felt quite comfortable
in my jacket and tie. Even though I say
it myself I probably looked quite spiffing. I collected my wine and cheese and went to
find the cheese and wine appreciation society.
I couldn’t find anyone in block two but I followed the noise and realised
that I should have paid more attention to the information on the poster. The function was ‘on’ block two. This was mountain rescue; where else would
you hold a function except on the roof of the fecking building.
Again, it was mountain rescue, so nothing like a ladder or
steps would be provided. I was relieved
of my cheese and wine and invited to join the chaps on the roof. They had positioned a table and some chairs
on the roof, but they had also brought an old RAF bicycle onto the roof. I then learned that there was another Novice on
the team, apart from Docker and myself, Bill ‘John Boy’ Walton. The building we were on was one of the accommodation
blocks. They were about fifty feet long
and maybe twenty feet wide. It looked as
if they had been constructed from modules, as there were raised ribs, evenly
spaced at about ten to twelve feet, along the length of the roof, where it
looked like the prefabricated sections would have been joined together. In the centre of the roof the ribs were about
ten to twelve inches high whereas at the edge of the roof they were three or
four inches high. The roof did have had
a slight pitch to it.
We were informed that if we, the three novices, could cycle one
circuit of the roof without our feet touching the ground, or in this case the roof, we would not only be
invited to join the RAF Valley, Mountain Rescue, Cheese and Wine Appreciation Society,
but we would even be invited to drink some of the wine and eat some of the
cheese we had brought.
John Boy was first to attempt the circuit and went as close to
the edge as he dared. Unfortunately
after crossing one rib, his right foot shot down to find something solid to
steady himself, but all he found was air and so went off the roof. It was a good ten or twelve feet to the
ground below. John Boy was congratulated
on bouncing so well, when he hit the ground, and then warned of the trouble he
would be in if the bike was damaged.
John boy slipped, on his way back up, and put a window through
with his boot which he was told he would have to pay for. Docker was next and managed to complete the circuit
and I have to admit having two attempts before I could successfully complete
the circuit. It was just another stupid
initiation ceremony that the guys had thought up, so we were allowed to relax
and sing a few songs. I even gave a
rendition of my song which I had learned faithfully. My song was the English folk song, Whiskey on
a Sunday, which, perhaps luckily for me, many people thought was Irish. Later I would add the blood curdling Weile
Weile Waile to my repertoire, and can happily say; they both were always well received,
as I not only had a fine voice, but the legs to hold it up too.
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